The Brazilian Wax
by eyesocketsandsuits
Summary: [[ BTT Oneshots ]] "We'd like three Brazilians, please." Alfred held up three fingers, and his eyes seemed a little clearer than they should have. "These three think they can be strippers, but I told them not with the nest they have growing." He laughed like it was the funniest thing he had ever said. Alfred waved his hand lazily. "Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert."
1. The Brazilian Wax

They came late in the night. There were four of them, each tripping over each other and giggling like mad. They smelled of the cigarettes from a bar, and they reeked of the last days of summer, something frantic and impulsive.

Kiku was closing down the shop when they had stumbled in, grins leering in the dark. Only one of them, who egged on the rest, seemed in more control of himself. Alfred, the others called him.

Alfred walked to the desk and slapped two hundred dollars on the counter.

"We'd like three Brazilians, please." Alfred held up three fingers, and his eyes seemed a little clearer than they should have. "These fuckers think they can be strippers, but I told them not with the nest they have growing." He laughed like it was the funniest thing he had ever said.

Kiku smiled politely, placing the money in the drawer. The other three were quite the group; a handsome man with long, blond hair who kept slipping into French; a plain looking brunet who nodded and agreed with everything the others were saying, who spoke with a lisp; a man who had bleached his hair white, and who laughed with a little too much force.

Alfred waved his hand lazily. "Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert."

Kiku led them into the back. The walls here weren't covered with stylish posters of nails and abstract paintings, this was business, were only the bravest dared to venture. And the brave knew what they were getting into, and no amount of picture frames could help that.

The room smelled aggressively of cleaning agents and flowers, something that assaulted the senses and caused more fear than relaxation. The five piled into the room, and Alfred turned to his friends and clapped his hands together.

"Which one of you is up first?" he asked, back a little too straight, casting mischievous looks at Kiku.

The three dawdled.

"It's not that I'm _afraid_ ," Gilbert snapped, hands on his hips and grin carved into his face, "It's just that I'm not the one who's gonna' go first! It's not fair—I had to pay for everyone's drinks!"

Francis draped himself over Gilbert, hair a tangel that would have looked good even in a windstorm. "That's because you are the only one with a job. We poor, unfortunate souls can only afford so much." He turned to Antonio. "Dear, you should be the one to go."

The comment took a moment to register on his face. A grin, a nervous one that was more instinct than anything, and then a slacked jaw denial. "No, no," and he slipped into Spanish, sending fearful looks at the table.

Alfred let them squabble before wrapping his arms around Gilbert and Antonio. "Dudes, come on! Don't be fucking babies, we already paid, and you'll lose the competition. Faster you go up, faster it's over."

Gilbert was shoved forward, and his feet seemed to catch on the smooth linoleum as he trudged slower and slower to the table. His fingers, heavy and awkward with drinks, played with his belt and he hopped on the table.

Kiku warmed the wax. It was an unassuming little jar, and he only had a simple tongue-depressor and strips of cloth to inflict pain. Gilbert watched Kiku with a kind of unfocused daze, like he was watching his noose being prepared.

"You guys are just fucking assholes," Gilbert said, looking at the other three.

"Oh, don't be a fucking pussy," Alfred sneered, reaching forward to place his hand on Gilbert's face and give him a shove back. "Your boyfriend will like it, trust me."

Kiku neared, and Gilbert jerked back, laughing. "Jesus fucking Christ! You look like you're enjoying this way too much, fuck." Another shaky laugh, and he allowed Kiku to step closer.

The wax dripped like honey, and the dreamy look was back in everyone's eyes as Kiku spread. Even Alfred, whose demeanor had been slightly predatory, had calmed. The air was thick and heavy, like the heavens waiting for lightning to rip the skies apart.

"It's warm."

Kiku pressed the cloth to Gilbert's flesh, pressing down carefully.

And Kiku ripped it off.

Gilbert shrieked, lurching backwards, upper back jutting off of the table. He let out another howl as he fell backwards, falling to the ground and flailing. Alfred burst out laughing, doubling over and holding onto Antonio for support as he wheezed.

Antonio and Francis were looking pale, watching as their friend writhed and eventually fell still on the ground. The room was very quiet, expect for Alfred's snorts and Gilbert's moans.

"Eh…" Antonio said, edging closer. "Are you… Okay?"

" _Fuck you_ I'm okay! That fucking _hurt_ , you son of a Spanish whore!" He looked up, eyes watering. "You. You have to go."

Antonio stepped back, hands raising defensively and placating grin back. "Eh—"

"No!" Gilbert yelled, grabbing the table and dragging himself upwards. "No! You fuckwads have you go! Both of you have to get up on this fucking table and have your fucking pubes ripped out! Francis, you turn around _right fucking now_!"

Francis threw his hands up into the air. "I did not sign up for this! I wanted a few drinks!"

Gilbert nearly launched himself over the table. " _I'll kill you_!"

Kiku cleared his throat. "I am not done."

Gilbert's head whipped around. "What?" His voice cracked.

"That was only the first strip." Kiku held up the other pieces of cloth.

Nearby, Alfred leaned against the wall and slowly slid down, holding his stomach in a silent laugh.


	2. Bread Was the Real Downfall

Harry Potter was one of the worst things to happen to the wizarding world since sliced bread.

Lovino remembered the riots after the book had come out. He had seen the newspapers—they only move if you wanted them to—and read with minor interest about the drunkard wizard that had been hauled in. Rowling had been "dealt with."

A couple of years later, she released a book.

Apparently, the mind wipe hadn't erased all of the wizard's story.

None of this really affected Lovino. If anything, it helped. He had been hired by Hogwarts to screen students for mortal technology. Reading books led to trying magic, which led to discovering magicical abilities, which led to the type of punks sitting in front of Lovino today.

"No, you can't sell iPods to students. For some reason, we go over this every fu—freaking year." Lovino slumped slightly in his chair.

Gilbert raised one shoulder in a shrug. "It's an iPhone."

Antonio nodded, leaning forward to grab on of the iPhones off of Lovino's desk. "Yeah, real ones. They're not the newest, but, well, no one here _has_ them, so we figured that maybe…" He slowly replaced the phone, smiling guiltily under Lovino's glare. "Eh…"

"Look, we don't allow this shit." Lovino picked up one of the phones, clicking the middle button. "They're detrimental to student's learning."

Francis pulled at a lose thread on his uniform. "Just like pants."

Gilbert nodded, crossing his arms. "Or any sport that doesn't use brooms."

"Or wands!" Antonio added. After a nudge from his friends, Antonio leaned forward and smiled. In a couple of years, it would be charming. "Could you not destroy them? I—the phones. Because they cost a lot, and Gilbert's dad doesn't really know about them."

Lovino twirled the phone, and then flicked his fingers, allowing the phone to float in front of Antonio's face. "So, you _stole_ them?"

A flash of panic. "No, no, no, _no_ , ha, no." Another one of Antonio's attempts at a charming smile. "Well, sort of."

Lovino wanted to smirk. He scowled instead. "I'm going to write letter to all of your parents."

Gilbert covered an obnoxious laugh with his hand. "My father doesn't read _letters_. Good luck with that, Lovino."

The phone zipped away from Antonio's face and smashed against the wall. Antonio slammed back in his chair, grasping Francis' arm. Gilbert's eyes flicked from the splinters of phone to Lovino.

"Mr. Vargas," Gilbert corrected, voice cracking.

Lovino forced a smile onto his face, but the edges were cracking. "Detention will be arranged by the head of your house. You are dismissed."

The three of them stood, shuffling out of Lovino's office and muttering darkly to one another. Antonio turned, dumb question on his lips, but he crumbled when he saw Lovino's face. Francis, the last one out, gave Lovino a disdainful look.

Lovino waved, smile still in place.

The three were back not a week later.

Instead of a pile of iPhones, there was a pile of thongs. Not just any thongs, but elaborately decorated thongs. Thongs for both girls and boys. And condoms. Condoms weren't outlawed at Hogwarts; they were just included in trio's purchase. Francis inspected his nails. Gilbert was blushing, but his arms were crossed defiantly. Antonio hands were in his lap; he was steadily avoiding Lovino's gaze.

Francis gave another disdainful look. "So, the 'wizarding world' doesn't have thongs?"

Lovino let out a small noise of anguish. "You don't sell underwear at school. Surely, even at," he waved his hand at the three of them, " _your_ schools, they must teach you that. And condoms?" Lovino gestured wildly. "Why?"

Francis nearly rolled his eyes. "It's a public service."

Lovino squinted. " _What_?"

Gilbert laughed, which turned into a snort. "We, I mean, there's the ball coming up. Demand and supply."

Antonio finally met Lovino's eyes. "Are you going to the ball?"

It was a good thing Lovino had impeccable self-control, otherwise he would have flipped the desk. "You cannot sell thongs at Hogwarts! You cannot give away _condoms_ —and damn it, Antonio, I'm not going to the ball with you, stop sending owls."

Gilbert sat straighter in his chair. "That's _another_ thing! Why don't you people have email?"

Lovino rested his forehead on the desk. A blue thong with hearts protected Lovino's head from the hard wood. "I don't make the rules, Gilbert. You can't sell these thongs. Only the infirmary can pass out condoms. Get the fuck out of my office."

Only two sets of footsteps shuffled away from his desk.

"Jesus Christ, Antonio, I'm not going to the ball."

A hurried third set of feet followed the other two.

A record breaking two weeks before the three of them were back. This visit was perhaps worst of all. The three students didn't even look ashamed as they sat there. Lovino's gaze was focused on the books. One of them was burning, slowly, the ashes disappearing when they neared the students.

"Harry Potter. You were selling _Harry Potter_. You could have been selling wands but you chose— _this_. You could have been selling _drugs_."

The three students broke down laughing. Lovino flipped his desk.


	3. Really, Really Try

"A little girl outside started crying when she saw this shirt."

"Well," France said, "you _are_ covered in blood."

Spain looked down at himself, seemed _surprised_ at the gore.

The tent seemed to trap the heat. France had thrown off most of his armor, but his clothes still stuck to him. He hated traveling abroad—everywhere never seemed to match the beauty of his own land. It was too hot or too cold or foreign.

When was the last time he had been home? France let his eyes shut, and he saw the swaying fields and the cities and the—

Something curled in his chest when his thoughts drifted to the aristocratic palaces. Homes. Buildings.

Spain sat on the ground, resting his head against the edge of the table. A few generals milled around the back of the tent, but they left the two nations alone. Maybe France could sit, but the idea of doing anything other than standing and praying for a breeze made him vaguely nauseous.

Outside, the calls of French troops to Spanish ones mingled pleasantly in the air.

"Oi."

France raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Spain's gaze was on the dusty ground, forehead still against the table, legs crossed. If France didn't know better, he would have thought Spain was weary. Spain glanced over, smiling.

"When do you think we'll push through?"

The maps on the table didn't bode well.

"Soon, hopefully," France said. "Portugal can't hold forever. The additional troops should help." France weighed the next phrase carefully. "How is Cuba going?"

Spain's smile turned sharp. "It will go fine."

"We can't just go on what you threaten, Spain. How is it actually going?"

A horse trotted by. Spain was still looking at the ground.

"It could probably be going better," he finally said, looking up guiltily. "It's like they're everywhere."

France thought about the man across the street that baked bread. France used to wake up every morning to the smell of pastries. He wondered if that man was still alive. How long _had_ he been away from home?

"We'll break through," France sighed. "The reinforcements will help. They have to."

"So much for being neutral." Spain stood, stretching. "You think we'll see Prussia?"

"He'll try to cut your head off." France felt a smile twitch across his face. "He's been _trying_ you cut your head off."

"We went drinking that one time!" Spain grinned. "We had a lot of fun. Was that before I teamed up with eyebrows, or after? Prussia was on my side against you last time, wasn't he?"

France waved a hand. "You focus too much on the past. All that matters now is that we are united in defeating eyebrows and Prussia."

"Yes but—maybe we could sneak away with Prussia and grab a drink? Or we could, the three of us, get around England, right, and just…" Spain swung his leg. "Take turns kicking him."

"Are you angry he sank your ship?"

Spain's face fell. "It was my favorite. Do you remember her? God, she was a gorgeous ship. Always got me through, back to shore, even when eyebrows was on our tail."

"Always got you through until England sank it." France smiled.

"That was one time!"

"Only time that matters." France winked.

"You are a very mean person."

France shrugged. "How's Romano?"

Spain's eyes were wide and innocent, but France saw the curl of the lip, the subtle warning. "I've been trying to get letters to him for ages. He seems lonely, but he always does when I'm disciplining."

An awkward silence. The horse galloped back by the tent, and Spain seemed to run the last word over in his mind, confused.

"Vacationing," Spain tried instead, grinning.

France laughed. "I'm sure that's what you consider it. Your French has gotten better. It's almost pleasant to speak with you, now."

"I figured we were friends, so I should be able to talk better with you."

That word.

"Spain," France began slowly, "we're not friends. We can't be. And Prussia may be fun to drink with, and he may seem like he doesn't care, but he'll stab you in the back."

"Oh, I know that." Spain grinned. "I'd stab _you_ in the back. But I don't think that means we can't be friends. In between wars. Or even during wars! I think the three of us will stick around for a while, you know?"

The heat struck France again as he looked away. The dust hung in the air; France wanted to take a bath, wash his hair.

"Friends," France repeated.

"Yeah!" Spain nodded. "I already got into this war for you, so why not friends? I've got your back until we're defeated, and then even if we're fighting, you promise not to sink my ships, and I'll try not to kill you!"

"Try?"

The smile didn't move from Spain's face.

"Try!"


	4. Danzig

**Fanfic based off of fanart.**

 **By** lissomeyart **on Tumblr. See the fanart at** lissomeyart . tumblr . thecom /post/130311965621/war-doesnt-determine-who-is-right-only-who-is **. Replace "thecom" with "com" and delete spaces, obvi.**

* * *

Prussia was drenched in the blood of others. It ran down his front and soaked through his shirt, and he felt the way the cloth stuck to his skin as he fought. The smell was overpowering, but he had long since gotten used to the stench.

They had tried to fight. He thought. He had fought who his knights were fighting against, and he wasn't about to doubt their judgement.

The next one stepped up, and Prussia quickly assessed him. Large strong—stronger than him—but he could see the signs of fatigue, the way the man took a second before recognizing Prussia as an enemy and then heft his sword, the drag at his feet.

He was going to die here.

The man raised his sword, swung once, twice, but Prussia blocked both strikes. There was power there—undirected. Had the man not been dead on his feet, exhausted, he could have easily knocked the sword from Prussia's hand in one blow.

Prussia left his arm up, and the man saw his opening and came from the side, wide. Prussia knocked the sword down, and then his sword slid through the chain mail and the man gazed at Prussia with confused eyes.

Prussia smiled and twisted the sword, and the man fell to his knees, gurgling on the blood he was drowning in. He coughed, and blood splattered on Prussia's face, warm and stinking. Prussia twisted his sword again then withdrew.

Prussia flicked his sword, blood dripping off. He turned to the next man, and there was something like a reverence in his face. Prussia took a step towards him, grinning, breathing heavy. He stepped over the other fallen bodies.

This man was the last one around here.

He dropped his sword and raised his hands in surrender. Prussia stalked forward, and the enemy dropped to his knees.

"Demon," he breathed.

Prussia halted for a moment. "I'm doing God's work."

He slammed his sword down though the man's collarbone, into the heart. Prussia saw the light leave the man's eyes, and he tried to tug the sword out. It remained in the corpse, and Prussia had to put a foot on the man's shoulder and strain before it came loose.

Prussia switched the sword to his right hand and went in search for his knights. The daylight was creeping across the sky, but Prussia was still cautious of hidden men.

A house had caught fire, and Prussia peered through the foundation. A family was huddled in the corner, and they looked at him with wide eyes. Prussia paused for a moment, then moved off.

The adrenaline was wearing off, and Prussia felt a headache coming on. He grimaced. Finally caught sight of someone he recognized, raised a hand in greeting and jogged closer.

"Thought you were another one," Prussia said as he neared.

"Sir," the man greeted. "God has graced us with an easy defeat."

Prussia flexed his wrist. "Relatively speaking."

"Are you hurt?" the man asked.

Prussia frowned, then looked down at himself. He let out a quick laugh, glancing back at the knight. "No, I'm not. Got a bit carried away, I guess. Fucking fantastic work. And now half this town is ours." Prussia wrapped an arm around the man and whooped. "Now, let's go execute those bastards who killed our brothers."

 **…**

Only half.

Prussia didn't like that.

So he fought.

And then it was all theirs.

 **…**

Prussia took a drink from the bottle. The alcohol brought tears to his eyes, but it's a good kind of pain. The kind that's right before numbness. Prussia didn't mind the numbness. In fact, he only liked the rage of the battlefield and then feeling dead inside.

"Prussia."

Prussia's eyes flicked up. Poland stood there, arms crossed, anger so subtle, the slight curl of the lip.

Prussia smiled. "Poland. I trust God has—"

"Shut your face," Poland snapped. "Shut it before I stab your eye out with a dagger and feed it to my horse."

"Big words from a man who holds no power in this city." Prussia stood, and the surrounding knights quieted to watch. "What are you doing here?" he asked, voice loud but hoarse. He was tired. God, so tired.

Poland shook his head, ever so slightly. "What have you done?"

Prussia considered. "I've won, haven't I?"

"You've killed innocent people!" Poland hissed.

Prussia stepped forward. "And they would have killed my men, just as quickly, if we hadn't fought. We were asked to reclaim this city." Prussia throws an arm out. "And I have!"

"I know what you were supposed to do. You were to help overthrow the city. And you've taken all of it." Poland's shoulders shook. "And you've killed half of it. For what? Look at you, you're covered in blood! You're sick."

Prussia's arm ached. His hands curled into fists. "I won." Poland began to speak again, but Prussia shook his head, didn't listen, interrupted. "'For he is God's servant for your good. But if you do wrong—'"

"You're not right in the head!" Poland yelled.

"I don't have to be right," Prussia snarled, stepped forward again. "I'm the only one left!"

Prussia didn't realize how loud he had gotten, how quiet everyone else was. He gritted his teeth and took a quick step back. His men were watching him, curious, ready to question him.

"Leave, Poland."

Poland opened his mouth, anger making tears spring to his eyes, because Prussia had killed his people, killed and burned and raped and looted. But Prussia turned and walked away.

"Leave before I have to kill you, too."


	5. Barstool

**Anonymous said** : You dirty filthy rascal for Frain?

 **Bwuaha, I didn't end up including these words into the story, but I'm sure y'all don't mind.**

* * *

"Haven't seen you in a while, bro!"

Gilbert doesn't lean against the counter. Everything felt grimy. He doesn't even want to be here, but he fished out the wallet from his pocket. Alfred tilted his head, arms crossed, easy and friendly.

"Thought you quit?" he asked, taking down Gilbert's favorite brand.

Gilbert shrugged. "So did I. Jesus, is a pack really nine bucks now?"

 **…**

Gilbert cursed, leaned back from the table too fast and stumbled. He was drunk, but Antonio and Francis didn't seem to mind. Maybe they didn't even fucking care. Gilbert took another mouthful of warm beer, grimaced.

"Thought I had it," he muttered.

Francis laughed. He leaned against his pool cue, most of his weight on the wood. Francis and Antonio always did that, and Gilbert realized it must be bad for the cues. He had half a mind to tell them off for it, but he just cracked open another beer.

"You don't have the magic French fingers." Francis smiled and wiggled his fingers.

Francis swaggered over to the table, leaned over, adjusted the cue. Antonio grinned, and Gilbert thought Antonio was staring at Francis' ass.

"Don't fuck up," Gilbert muttered.

Antonio glanced over at him. "Don't be grumpy you're off your game tonight! Maybe Francis and me can catch up to your, ah, winning streak, no?" He took another sip from his drink. It was bright and colorful, and probably tasted better than Gilbert's beer. "Which pocket did he call?"

"I wasn't listening."

Antonio snickered. "Cheer up!"

The pool ball sailed easily into the pocket. Antonio clapped; only because he was winning. Usually, he was muttering under his breath in Spanish. Now, though—Gilbert gritted his teeth. Maybe Antonio was just happy for Francis. Maybe he was only clapping—

"What are you doing?"

Gilbert blinked and looked at Francis, then crossed his eyes to get a better look at the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looked at Francis and squared his shoulders. Francis' mouth twisted into a frown, and Gilbert had to look away.

"We quit together."

That made Gilbert's eyes snap back to Francis'. "I wanted a few."

"It's never a few," Francis insisted. "We were all doing so well. How many months has it been? At least three. Antonio, was it—"

"It was almost four, I think."

They stood in the relative silence of the bar, and Gilbert felt like he had a target painted on his face. He glowered, took another puff, and crushed the cigarette under his boot. He raised an arm into the air, smiling savagely.

"There is everyone happy? We ruined my fun, so can we continue with the fucking pool game? Please? Francis, go." Gilbert saw them exchange glances, and he stepped forward. "Go!"

Francis' mouth twisted. "I'm suddenly not in the mood."

Antonio nodded, once, slowly, then again, with more conviction. "We should let someone else have the pool table. Just for now." He tried for a smile. "Do you really want to lose? Officially?" He laughed, but it petered out.

Gilbert didn't fucking care. He tossed his cue onto the table and marched over to the bar. Antonio followed closely at his heel, apologizing to people Gilbert bumped in to. Gilbert realized they must know _he_ knows. After all, why would Antonio try to avoid conflict?

Gilbert collapsed onto a bar stool. The bartender brought over raised an eyebrow, and Gilbert ordered something stronger than shitty beer. He gulped it down when it arrived, ordered another one. Before he knew what he was doing, another cigarette was back in his mouth.

The stool wobbled.

Antonio sat on one side, Francis the other. They ordered their own drinks, and an uneasy silence settled on them. Gilbert watched the smoke float past his nose, blew a smoke ring or two.

His chair wobbled, again. Gilbert seethed.

"Do you know," he said, savoring the words like the smoke in his mouth, "what I like about barstools?"

The other two didn't answer.

"I like that they have three legs." Gilbert glanced at Francis, at Antonio. "Not too many, not four, but enough to be practical. Three; it's a good number. But what happens when two of those legs start fucking each other, and then expect the third leg not to figure it out?"

Antonio was looking at his drink. Only Francis was looking evenly at Gilbert, face passive. God, Gilbert wanted to fucking rip at his hair, make the Frenchman act like something _mattered_. He was always so fucking calm and cool, and Gilbert glared at him.

Francis' shoulders moved, slightly. "You're welcome to join us."

"Don't be cute," Gilbert snapped.

Suddenly, the room seemed much too hot. Gilbert shoved himself away from the bar and marched across the floor. He slammed into a guy, and he shoved the kid out of his way, snarling. A guy in a scarf raised an eyebrow.

"Someone spit in your drink?" the scarf man asked.

Gilbert hissed. "Fuck off!"

The air outside was just as balmy, but Gilbert felt like he could breathe out here. He felt sweat start to form on his neck, and he pulled out another cigarette, lit it. He had a coughing fit, and paced, working out the phlegm. Moths fluttered around the streetlamps.

Antonio and Francis watched him. Gilbert couldn't deal with them, and he just paced, back and forth, back and forth, working through his pack, trying to fucking _calm down_. But he couldn't.

The two of them sat on the curb.

Gilbert came to the end of his pack. When the last cigarette burned to his lips, he whirled to face them.

"What the _fuck_ you guys?"

Antonio glanced up—a wounded dog. "We thought… it might be… better if you—"

"When did the hell did the three of us—" Gilbert struggled, and he heard his voice becoming raspy. "When did it become the two of _you_? What happened to the Three Amigos? The fucking Trio? What—" His voice cracked.

Gilbert was glad he couldn't see Francis' face in the dark.

Francis stood. "It is still the three of us."

Gilbert had started shaking his head halfway through the sentence. "No, no, no, look, you two are already making plans and agreeing on things! Why didn't you just _tell_ me?"

"Because we thought you would react like this." Antonio's voice was surprisingly clipped, and that hurt worse than if Gilbert could see Francis' face. "Stop yelling, please," he added, softer.

"I'm not yelling!" Gilbert's hands fumbled through his pockets. "I'm only reacting like this because you didn't tell me!"

Francis crossed his arms; Gilbert could see his silhouette shifting against the light pouring out of the bar. "You had no idea?" Francis' voice was quick, heavily accented. "Not a clue?"

" _It doesn't matter_!" Gilbert couldn't breathe. "You didn't tell me! You didn't tell _me_! I found out through fucking _Arthur_ of all people, and the look he gave me—like I was an idiot!"

Gilbert tried to catch his breath, and he stood there in the parking lot, the dark parking lot, face hot and fingers shaking and he could feel himself wanting to cough, facing his best friends who were probably looking at him like he was overreacting.

It was quiet, and he suddenly didn't want to break the silence, interrupt the crickets.

"It's the three of us," Gilbert whispered. "But now it's the two of you and me. And that makes for a shitty fucking barstool."


	6. 25 MPH

Antonio squinted out his window. The light seemed a little bright, a little unneeded. Then again, this whole situation seemed unneeded. Gilbert was seething next to him, and was muttering under his breath, pulling up the Constitution on his phone.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

Antonio honestly and truly did not. "Uh."

"It's probably because of your ass," Gilbert muttered. He realized what he said, grinned wickedly, leaned over Antonio to look at the cop. "It's probably because of the driver's fine, Spanish ass."

"Please control your hoodlum."

Antonio must have misheard. Gilbert, though, had perfect hearing.

"What did you just call me?"

The cop's light didn't waver. "I called you a hoodlum."

Gilbert was practically giving Antonio a blowjob he leaned so far over. "I swear to—"

Francis' hand reached out from the back and hauled Gilbert back into his seat by the collar of his shirt. "The last thing you need," Francis said lowly, "is another strike on your permanent record. You will be lucky to pass the bar as it is."

Antonio still squinted at the cop. "Is it because of my ass?"

"I'm going to need you to step out of the car. Just you, not the other two bozos. You get to be the lucky fuck who gets in trouble."

"This is illegal," Gilbert hissed.

Antonio glanced back at Francis, who shrugged. That could have meant almost anything, so Antonio guessed it meant 'Gilbert is drunk.' This was true, so Antonio unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door.

First this he noticed was that he was taller than the cop. The second thing he noticed was that the cop was scowling and still trying to shine the light in Antonio's face, even though he had stepped a few feet away.

"Any reason you were driving fifteen miles under the speed limit?"

"Safety?"

Officer Vargas frowned. "Yeah, sure. Willing to take a breathalyzer test?"

" _No_!" Gilbert stumbled out of the car. "That is a _bull_ shit request! Because if you don't, Antonio—"

"I'll shoot you," Officer Vargas muttered, and Antonio wasn't sure he actually heard that. He doesn't think he was supposed to. "Sorry, do you want to take the test, instead?"

"Gilbert." Francis' voice, usually so controlled, is slightly blended, slurred. "Get back in the car."

Gilbert looked between the cop and Antonio, breathing hard. He slowly sank back into the seat, and Antonio tried a smile at the cop. To his surprise, Officer Vargas grunted and put the flashlight away.

"Safety, huh?"

"I'm the designated driver. Unless one of us stays sober, we spend all the cab money on more drinks. So," Antonio gestured at himself. "Here I am!"

Officer Vargas raised an eyebrow. "Sober as a church mouse, huh?"

"What?"

"You'd never heard that—it doesn't matter." Vargas shook his head. "Look, I need you to say the alphabet backwards."

Gilbert started to say something, but it sounded like Francis slapped his hands over Gilbert's mouth.

Antonio stared at Vargas, who stared back. The silence was awkward. Vargas leaned closer to Antonio.

"You're not saying anything."

Antonio felt his hands get clammy. "I, uh, I forgot."

"The alphabet?"

"Ah, English isn't my first language. I forgot."

"You forgot the alphabet?"

Antonio smiled awkwardly. "I can do it in Spanish."

Vargas shrugged. "I know Spanish."

"You do?" Antonio smiled. "That's interesting. I can't do it in Spanish, either. I'd need to sing through the song and then work backwards."

The cop closed his eyes, and Antonio could see him counting to ten under his breath. "Are you… Okay, okay, fine. Look, just give me your license and registration. You're obviously just stupid, so I'm going to let you go with a verbal warning."

"For what?" Gilbert had crawled over the driver's seat and stuck his head out the window. "He was being _safe_ and you're punishing him for that? What the _fuck_?"

Vargas looked from Gilbert to Antonio. "Do you guys _want_ me to bring you to the station?"

"Yes—"

" _No_." Antonio stepped in between Vargas and Gilbert. "Look, he's drunk."

"He's disrespecting an officer!" Vargas said, voice rising.

"You _deserve_ it," Gilbert mumbled.

"Move, I'm going to arrest your friend."

Francis stirred from the back, and there was a scuffle, a few curses. Antonio bent down, and Francis was now sitting in the passenger seat, Gilbert in the back. Francis winked at him, tossed his hair. Well, at least now Francis could roll up the windows.

"License?" Vargas prompted, running a hand over his face. "Give me your license and we can get this over with.

Antonio searched his pockets, kept patting his pants. "What's your first name?"

The cop's attention focused back on Antonio. "I don't think that's any of your business."

"They, uh, they have your last name right there." He pointed at the badge on Vargas' uniform. "I could probably find out more about you with your last name, anyways. Facebook. Twitter."

"Is that a threat?"

"What? No. No! I just…" Antonio blinked.

Vargas frowned. "I still need your license."

"I still need your first name."

Vargas laughed, and Antonio perked up. It was a surprisingly cute laugh, coming from a cop who had pulled them over for anti-speeding.

The smile still hadn't quite left Vargas' face. "I do need it, though."

"Ah. Well." Antonio nodded, slowly. "I seemed to have lost it."

The smile fell off of his face like a stone. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Someone must have nicked my wallet at the bar. I should probably cancel my Debit car. However, my name is Antonio. It's the same name on the registration. Francis. Francis! Get the car registration." Francis had fallen asleep. Antonio looked back at Vargas. "I swear."

"You didn't even tell me your last name!"

"You didn't tell me your first."

"Holy Jesus, it's Lovino!" Lovino hid his face in his hands. "I should have just left my shift. I figured, 'How much trouble could one drunk driver be?' And now here I am." He moved his hands so only his mouth was covered. "With you."

"I'm not drunk."

"Fine! Fine!" Lovino threw his hands into the air. "You get a warning! Don't let me pull you over again, or I swear to God, I'm going to skin you alive."

Antonio clapped his hands together. "Ah, thank you so much! I promise, you won't ever see me again." He sank back gratefully into his car. "You have a nice—"

Antonio was sure he had the car in first gear. But instead of rolling forward, back onto the street, off to his house, the car lurched backwards and slammed into Lovino's cop car.

"—night."

"Oh my God."

"It might only be a scratch."

* * *

 **Anonymous said:** prompt: Antonio is very drunk (with his two friends) and Lovino is a cop.

 **I cry.**


	7. Question--

**Anonymous said:** The BFT (as a pairing? yes?) and the most beautiful smile they ever saw?

 **:V**

* * *

 **What's the most beautiful smile you've ever seen?**

That's—that's kind of a stupid question. Uh, I don't—I don't have a memory relating to beautiful—what?

 **Alright, well, what's the strongest memory you relate to smiles? The warmest memory you have?**

Uh… Huh. It's kind of long. That fine?

 **As long as you need.**

Okay. So, me and my—my, uh—me and—Antonio and Francis. They're—they're assholes.

It was in college, yeah? God, I think it was—six months into college—first semester, anyways. So, we look like we're twelve, of course. My… friend Antonio made these fuckin' fake IDs so we figured, 'Pft, let's go use them.' We go to the shittiest—the, the _shiftiest_ dive bar you can possible imagine. Just, it's, it's a mess.

So, we're standing in line, and me and Francis finally look at these IDs that Antonio had gotten us. And you know what it fuckin' said? My name was "Hans Burgermiester." So that just lets you know—professional as shit, man. It was all—all holographic and shit, full state ID. But. It was Burgermiester and Francis' last name was "Hohon." Stereotypical French laugh… as his last name.

So we get up to—to this fuckin' _huge_ guy—the bouncer. He works out—too much. Way too much. We hand him our IDs and I'm just _praying_ that he's not going to look at these and deck us in the face.

Antonio hands him his card, and asshole's—you know, fucking fine with it. Goes right in, fine with it. Walks into the bar; not a problem.

Francis—cool as a breeze—hands him his ID, gets in—of course, Hohon gets in.

I'm—I am pissing myself. I hand—I hand him my card, and I'm—I'm actin' like I'm big shit, but I'm like, "He's gonna deck me in the face!"

Burgermiester, me, gets in.

We get into this place, and it's—it's, it's. Mm. To say it was full of the dirtiest scumbags in the city is an understatement. You know, big guys, big beards, it smells like sweat, far as the eye can see—nose can smell.

We go to the bar, and Antonio and Francis try to order their drinks, you know, they give this big, long, complicate order. It's like, "Margarita, salt, vinegar, shaken, not stirred," however it is.

The bartender gives them this _look_ , he's like, "What the fuck." So he pulls out these three lukewarm beers—and I love lukewarm beers, so I'm fine with it—God, and Antonio and Francis give each other this look, "What the _fuck_?!" It was—the _funniest_ shit. It was just about the funniest shit I've ever seen.

So, in this bar, right, so, we're sitting there, we had a couple of drinks, right? And this guy was giving us this _look_. You know, he's makin' eyes at us, and he's talking to his buddies, hittin' them in the shoulder, pointing at us.

I did not come to this bar for this nonsense. I get up, and I walk over, and I'm like, "What the fuck, bro? What is your issue?"

And he's like, "I didn't come here to see a bunch of—"

And I just didn't listen after that, I just punched him right in the face. So, I punched him right in the face, and of course all his buddies hop up. I'm surrounded by like, three guys, and I'm like, "I'm fucked! I'm going to die! This is how I'm going down—swinging!"

I jump at the nearest one, and I turn around, and those two assholes—I barely know them. I've literally known them for—for a couple of months. In a couple of classes—I think we were in… art history together, something stupid.

I turn around and—I—we hadn't known each other, this was sort of our first hangout—and I turn around and instead of running—instead of running and getting away from this fight, Antonio and Francis are up there, and they're by my side!

I'm—and I'm feeling much more confident! I'm feelin' _way_ better with, uh, two people by my side. So I turn around back to these assholes and—we start fighting.

It was, uh, it was not a good fight. We were skinny college kids who basically lived off Ramen Noodles—before I built up my mass, obviously. We were skinny, you know, skinny kids. Before we had gotten down—we were mainly doing homework. You know, before we were working our—working on our physique.

We start fighting. Getting our—I throw a punch, this guy dodges under it, slams me in the stomach. You know, I'm trying not to curl up and cry. It's uh, it's a mess.

I think we held our own, though. I think we had to break some bottles and kind of fend them off that way, but we held them off for a good long while.

Cops got called. Which is, uh, which is never a good thing. [Laughs]

Cops got called. And, I mean, those fucking bitches were—they were out of there. Gone. So it was—Francis, Antonio, and I. The cops take one look at us and are like, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

By this point, of course, we had tumbled outside. We had been kicked out, but the fight had continued outside. So, they haul us back in this cruiser, and we're blitzed off our asses. We are—we are definitely not twenty-one, we do not _look_ twenty-one, we are _not_ twenty-one. Burgermiester and Hohon are not twenty-one year olds.

We get hauled into the station, and I feel like fucking shit—because these poor assholes are probably going to get something on their permanent record—some—something awful like that. It's all my fault!

So, I'm sitting there—and I have, I have two black eyes, I'm a mess—a mess. I'm layin' there and covering my eyes. I'm thinking, "These two must think I'm a complete asshole, I just can't keep my mouth shut," stuff like that.

I look up at them, and these two—these two fuckers look like their faces have been dragged across asphalt—they look like a mess. Missing teeth and stuff. These—these two give—they give me the—the _biggest_ smile you could imagine that two drunk assholes who had been beaten in a fight could give you.

I was—I was just… Um. It—uh. It was just—yeah. Yeah.

 **Why did you pick this memory?**

Uh. Well, what do you mean?

 **Well, why did you relate this to a beautiful smile?**

Oh, it wasn't—it definitely wasn't a fuckin' beau—they had a bunch of blood on their teeth!

Well, I guess… My—my brother and I are close but he—he more has to be, he's my brother!

But it was the first time… I guess… That… That I felt like, people had my back. It was the first time I got into a fight and I turned around and there were two other—idiots! Two—two other people _there_. Who were there to… have my back. To get hauled into jail—not the first time I've been hauled into jail, but first time I've been hauled into jail with people.

I guess… I dunno'. That kind of just… started things, I guess.

 **Started what things?**

Uh. Well… a friendship. We got an apartment together, we share the rent—kind of, kind of solidified things. We all sort of stood for the same thing. The first time I knew that we _could_ be friends. That they… under… stood me. Basic—well, that they… could understand why I would start a fight like that. Or, well, that I wasn't just starting a fight to be an asshole, that I was starting a fight because these other assholes were assholes.

I think it was the first time I realized they could understand that. And I think that was a lot of what… we're kind of, going off on.

So, I mean, when I think of "smile," not a beautiful smile, but a smile that—that fuckin' means something… I… That's the one—and you know, a dirty, grey concrete cell, next door is a—is Bruiser who's in for beating his wife, and stuff like that. Handcuffed. Buzzed 'til the morning. Called our parents—we called our parents for bail—father was furious.

But I think—but I think—yeah. Those smiles. You don't know how good a smile is after a fight until you see—yeah.

Are we good?


End file.
